Music from the ferned-in orchestra came in drifts, faint, not so faint. From somewhere, then immediately from everywhere--beyond, below, without, the fast shouts of newsboys mingling. Suddenly and of her own volition, and with a cry that shot up through the room, rending it like a gash, Mrs. Horowitz, who moved by inches, sprang to her supreme height, her arms, the crooks forced out, flung up. "My darlings--what died--for it! My darlings what died for it! My darlings--Aylorff, my husband!" There was a wail rose up off her words, like the smoke of incense curling, circling around her. "My darlings what died to make free!" "Mama! Darling! Mama! Mr. Haas! Help! Mama! My God!" "Aylorff--my husband--I paid with my blood to make free--my blood--. My son--my--own--" Immovable there, her arms flung up and tears so heavy that they rolled whole from her face down to the black grenadine, she was as sonorous as the tragic meter of an Alexandrine line; she was like Ruth, ancestress of heroes and progenitor of kings. "My boy--my own! They died for it! _Mein Mann! Mein Sühn_!" On her knees, frantic to press her down once more into the chair, terrified at the rigid immobility of the upright figure, Mrs. Coblenz paused then, too, her clasp falling away, and leaned forward to the open sheet of the newspaper, its black head-lines facing her: RUSSIA FREE BANS DOWN 100,000 SIBERIAN PRISONERS LIBERATED In her ears a ringing silence, as if a great steel disk had clattered down into the depths of her consciousness. There on her knees, trembling seized her, and she hugged herself against it, leaning forward to corroborate her gaze. MOST RIGID AUTOCRACY IN THE WORLD OVERTHROWN RUSSIA REJOICES "Mama! Mama! My God! Mama!" "Home, Shila; home! My husband who died for it--Aylorff! Home now, quick! My wreaths! My wreaths!" "O my God! Mama!" "Home!" "Yes, darling--yes--" "My wreaths!" "Yes, yes, darling; your wreaths. Let--let me think. Freedom! O my God! help me to find a way! O my God!" "My wreaths!" "Here, darling, here!" From the floor beside her, the raffia wreath half in the making, Mrs. Coblenz reached up, pressing it flat to the heaving old bosom. "There, darling, there!" "I paid with my blood--" "Yes, yes, mama; you--paid with your blood. Mama--sit, please. Sit and--let's try to think. Take it slow, darling; it's like we can't take it in all at once. I--We--Sit down, darling. You'll make yourself terrible sick. Sit down, darling; you--you're slipping." "My wreaths--" Heavily, the arm at the waist gently sustaining, Mrs. Horowitz sank rather softly down, her eyelids fluttering for the moment. A smile had come out on her face, and, as her head sank back against the rest, the eyes resting at the downward flutter, she gave out a long breath, not taking it in again.